Snakebite Sarah, they called her. She didn't like the name. It'd come from when Tom Wainwright asked for a kiss, and she told the whole saloon she'd rather a rattler kiss her than Tom. Nothing to do for it now. If she didn't take the name with a wink and a grin, they'd rake her over the coals with it. "You hearin me, Snakebite?" She looked down the dusty street at Oregon Roarke. He'd got bent out of shape last night when Sarah said that at her worst, she could shoot, drink, and whore better than him. Now they stood in the baking sun, guns at the ready.
"Nope," she said. Already bent, that twisted Roarke into a pretzel. He almost drew right then, but his pride over beating her fair stopped him. His hands twitched over his guns. Sarah yawned, and that burnt Roarke more. He called her every name in the book before calling, "Draw!"
He drew, she drew, and he died surprised. She collected his guns. "Trophies," she said. In truth, she needed to hide the dummy cartridges she'd slipped in them. Roarke could live or die by his pride, but Snakebite Sarah sure as hell wouldn't.